


Death Follows Behind Me

by narcissablaxk



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Because the frog major needs to be able to go a little crazy sometimes, Crisis of Faith, Dark!Hewlett, F/M, I mean if you want to categorize it, Post-Wedding, Violent Hewlett, War torn Hewlett with a grudge, friends-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9522392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: After Hewlett and Anna's almost wedding, Hewlett discovers a letter in her room that threatens her life. He will go to great lengths to save his great love, but does she even want to be saved?





	1. The Horseman Rides

Her hands were soft in his, pliable and warm, her eyes locked on him. Her dress was a color he couldn’t remember now; all he could remember was her face, the lines around her eyes that bespoke a childhood full of laughter, and the few lines in her forehead that reminded him of the misfortune she had endured in her adult life. Her smile was unsteady, tight at the edges, as if she was bracing herself for bad news. He supposed he understood that sentiment, after all they’d had to overcome. But they would be okay now, he knew. This was their fresh start. The magistrate asked if anyone objected to their union, and the silence stretched, taut and a little stressed, but for once, it soothed him.

“I object.” 

Edmund tore his eyes away from his bride and toward the man that used to be his friend, one of his closest confidantes. Richard’s eyes were hardened, focused on Anna, whose hands slid out of his so easily he wondered if they had even truly been there. She was a world away, in less than an instant, her eyes closed to him, those lines in her forehead more prominent than ever before. 

“As a friend I’ve tried to hold my tongue, but as a magistrate I can no longer allow this marriage to proceed.” 

Anger coiled tightly in Edmund’s gut. “No, no, Richard, you’ve gone too far this time.” He turned to the guards, bedecked in redcoats. “Take this man and put him in the bloody stockades!” 

He stepped forward, reaching for his bride again, but her hands were wringing together, as they so often did before she delivered some sort of bad news. He should have noticed the signs; he should have seen what was happening before it had to be said. 

“Hear me out and you may wish to put your bride there instead.” 

He kept his eyes on Anna, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. He willed her to look at him, for even a moment, but she kept her eyes on the ground, in shame. This was her silent confession.

“The divorce papers she submitted from Connecticut are false.” 

The death knoll knocked Edmund sideways when Anna did not immediately object. 

“She forged the signatures and I have taxation records from Selah Strong to prove it.” 

He stopped listening after that, as long as he could. Richard, as stubborn, and as cowardly as he could be, was no liar. Blind, sure, but deceitful he was not. He searched his bride’s face, trying to commit it to memory. He knew, somehow, that this would end with their ultimate separation. They would not see each other again, though who would enforce that separation he could not be sure yet. 

“He made me do it.” 

Her voice, usually musical to his ears, was the equivalent of the sound of the axe falling over his neck. He closed his eyes against the sound, the assault he was forced to endure. The murmurs reached a dizzying pitch, so loud he tried to cover his ears, but his hands weren’t moving; nothing was moving. He opened his eyes; everyone was staring at him, silent, still, judgmental. 

“Is this true?” they asked as one, their mouths moving in time. 

His eyes found her again, an angel that he now saw as the angel of death, tears swimming in her eyes, her whole body quivering the way it did right before he kissed her for the first time, something like tragedy reflecting back into his own eyes. 

“Is it true?” it echoed and beat against him like waves upon the shore. There was a plea there, hidden in her gaze, something like desperation. She needed him. He loved her. Even if he couldn’t give her a life of happiness, like he promised, he could give her this.

“Yes,” he breathed finally. 

The silence fractured and broke, murmurs creeping up toward him like the opening of some symphony’s denouement. Perhaps this was his. 

“Forgive me.” His voice left him and took on a life of its own, a silver tendril of memory that lingered, thrashing against the rest of his thoughts. He heard his voice, the way it broke, the way his tears fell, the way his bride fled, the door closing behind her, over and over again, unrelenting, the pattern of thunder and lightning. 

He awoke drenched in a cold sweat. He told himself that he was wiping away sweat, not tears. 

***

“Major,” Mary Woodhull’s voice was soft, irritatingly so, but it still yanked him forcibly out of his reverie. “Breakfast is on the table.” 

He could hear the pity in her voice; he knew if he looked up he’d be able to see it in her eyes as well. That was how everyone addressed him now, with sympathy, with eyes that hid their true feelings of disgust. They believed him when he said that he forced Anna into marrying him. They thought he was the man that was so desperate for a woman that he’d force her into matrimony. And why would they think any differently? 

But Mary…Mary saw right through him, just like she did everyone. 

“I’m not hungry,” he said shortly, turning away from her and back to his desk. “And I am no major. Not anymore.” 

He could hear her hesitate in the doorway, as if she wanted to contradict him, but she settled on silence and left him to his musings, alone in his room. He would have to wait at least another week before he could start for York City to meet Major Andre to be cashiered and sent back to Scotland. 

It had been three days since his disastrous wedding, and it already felt like it had happened in another time. He let his fingers trace over the divorce papers, the falsified divorce papers, he corrected himself, lingering on the letters that he now recognized as Anna’s handwriting. He should have seen it. He should have known. 

The self-loathing that washed over him was a familiar feeling, so familiar that he almost embraced it. Of course he wouldn’t have known that Anna had forged those divorce papers, because he had always suspected, deep down, that she didn’t love him. It didn’t make logical sense, just like her decision to marry him, only to leave him at the altar, didn’t make any sense. 

He slid the divorce papers over and focused his attention on the paper below it, a note written to S. Culper, that begged (and he knew it was begging, because of the tearstains on the parchment) not to do this, but to go to 711 instead. He could be happy there. His eyes landed on the curve of the “C,” and the extra tail on the “S” that matched the signature of Selah Strong. He had found it in her room, immediately after their almost-wedding. It had been on the floor, almost as an afterthought, left behind in her rush to leave. 

He hoped he could catch her before she fled, but her room was empty when he got there, the window still open, as if she had just disappeared through it. He had gone to the window, a stupid idea, and stared out across the grounds, hoping to spot her, even one last time. Then perhaps he could book-end his experience here, with one last look at the back of her head, her proud posture, her long dark hair, and that dress that he couldn’t remember for her face. 

He knew what that letter meant; he knew what that code indicated. 

He had almost married a spy for the Continental Army. Had he been a mark for her, or had he merely been a way to secure her freedom to continue spying for George Washington and the rebels? He couldn’t figure out which one Anna would have done; he didn’t imagine he truly knew anything about her beyond what other people had told him. He knew that she had been romantically attached to Abraham Woodhull, probably brought together by like-mindedness and nostalgia for a time before the war; neither of those things could he compete with.

Did she still love Abraham? Had she tried to marry him in spite of that? Was he a sacrifice, a hardship she had to endure? The idea made him sick, so betrayed and embarrassed he thought he couldn’t survive another second of the loathing that rapidly became attached to him like a dark cloud.

His hand clenched into a fist over the divorce papers, and he threw them violently toward a candle, an ill-advised move that he realized as the paper fluttered just short of the flame. What did it matter why Anna Strong did what she did? What did it matter anymore? 

Despite his anger and his grief, he still found his feet carrying him to her room. He stood in the doorway for a few moments, trying to decide if he would step inside and invade her space. But this wasn’t her space anymore, just like it wasn’t her room. He stepped further into the room, the quiet thud of his cane on the wood floor the only sound. Mary had changed the bedding, thus chasing all remnants of Anna from the room, and despite his anger, he mourned the loss of the smell of her hair, the atmosphere that followed her that was simply…her.

He told himself that he was looking for more spy correspondence, but he couldn’t help but hope, in an empty sort of way, that she had left something for him there, a letter that explained what she’d done, a clue that said where she was going to be. Perhaps an explanation was too much to hope for, he thought bitterly as he sat on the edge of the bed, dropping his head to the top of his cane. 

That’s when he spotted the piece of parchment, just peeking out from underneath the stand that held the candle by her bed. It was folded and sealed, but he knew instinctively she hadn’t written it. The wax was slightly lopsided, the seal sloppy. This wasn’t Anna’s doing. 

He flipped it over and felt his breathing stutter to a halt. The “Mrs. Strong” written across the front of the letter was in Simcoe’s unmistakable hand; it was the same handwriting that had almost gotten him killed, the same handwriting that haunted his dreams along with the creeping cold of the Continental camp and Anna’s desperate gaze. 

When had it gotten here? He cast his gaze about, as if Simcoe would come lurching out of the shadows. Mary had just been in here the day before to change the bedding. Surely she would have noticed a letter on the table. The only thing that made sense was that Simcoe had come in here, snuck in, and put the letter on the table. He had been in the house with him. 

He shivered in spite of himself. 

He considered not opening it, but his fingers were shaking so much that the seal was already compromised. With a growl, he yanked it open completely, almost tearing it. It was short, but the scrawl was untidy, too large, and it seemed much longer at a moment’s glance. 

“Mrs. Strong, 

Samuel Culper’s mission has failed; I am still alive. I am sure that is to your disappointment. I have heard of your imminent marriage to Major Hewlett, though I initially thought your confession of love for him was nothing more than manipulation, I see now your true colors. 

You mean to use him to protect your spying. Do not try to deny it, do not try to run. When I am finished with Culper, I’m coming back for you. I have a man in Washington’s camp, waiting for your arrival. It will be difficult, but together we can train this treason out of you. 

And when we’re done, you will be my wife. 

Your ardent love,   
John Graves Simcoe.” 

He let the letter flutter to the floor, sliding easily between his limp fingers. Simcoe had survived, and he knew Anna’s true affiliations. He was coming for her. The statements repeated in his mind, running on an endless loop that seemed to grow louder and louder until he could hear nothing else. His breathing shortened to quick bursts, his head grew fuzzy and weak. 

He was panicking; he could not panic. He was the only one that knew of this letter, and the threat it contained. He inhaled sharply, so fast that it burned all through his chest like a strong wine, and closed his eyes. It would be easier to pretend he had never seen this, to go about his business for the next five days and then go back to Scotland. He could, in time, forget Anna Strong’s face, forget the feeling of her hand on his neck, forget her kiss. One day he could accidentally forget her name and never really reclaim it. 

He wished, fervently wished that he could do all of those things. But he could not erase knowledge, and that he was always proud of. In this case, he could not pretend that he had not found this letter, and he could not pretend that he wasn’t terrified for her, despite her deception. He could not deny that he still loved her, even if she didn’t love him.

He would not let Simcoe harm Anna. 

***

The cabin that Abraham inhabited now that he was banished from Whitehall was small, drafty, and smelled rather like wood rot. Edmund cast his eyes around it, his hand tight around the handle of his pistol. No one had been home when he had banged on the door, though Thomas’s cries drifted through one of the gaps in the wood. The door wasn’t even locked, but waiting for him to push his way inside. 

The boy was now sitting on his bed, playing with a toy that Edmund didn’t recognize. He wouldn’t let himself look at the boy, knowing that if this conversation went poorly, he would not want to remember the little boy’s face. 

Abraham’s footsteps coming up the steps pulled him to his feet, his pistol aimed at the door. Abraham shoved the door open, a sack of what looked like apples over his shoulder. 

“I brought treats – holy shite, Major what the hell are you doing here?” 

Edmund struggled to keep his voice calm. He wanted to yell, to scream, to shove the man to the floor. Hell, his finger on the trigger of his pistol was itching to be pulled. The destruction of something, anything, would put his anger and fear aside for a short time. For now, he struggled to keep that wild notion in check. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Abraham has jumped on the fact that Edmund hadn’t responded. “I was about to go to Whitehall to tell you the good news.” 

“Good…news?” Edmund’s white-knuckled grip around the gun handle loosened and he lowered the barrel to the wooden floor. “What good news?” 

For someone with good news, Abraham’s face was tight, the skin around his neck tense. “I just got word from my Continental contact that our plot was successful. Simcoe is dead.” 

Simcoe…dead? Edmund felt the adrenaline in his body flee, and his posture sagged noticeably. “Simcoe…Simcoe is dead?” he asked. “You’re sure.” 

There was a nagging thought in the back of his head that almost overpowered Abraham’s affirmative response. Yes, he said with almost an arrogant air, Simcoe was dead, why didn’t Edmund trust him? The letter Simcoe left for Anna was burning in his pocket; had Simcoe left it before he met his demise? He could have; Simcoe was not often known for telling truths. The things he wrote in the letter could be false. 

Edmund focused his gaze on Abraham. Abraham and Simcoe were cut from the same cloth, in this respect. Which liar to believe? 

“I thought you’d be happier,” Abraham pointed out, turning away from Edmund to drop the sack of apples on the ground. “I mean…our little gunpowder plot is finished now, isn’t it?” 

“Not necessarily,” Edmund answered, his hand around his cane tightening. “I believe the last part of our deal was that you and Mary would leave. Find a new home in Washington’s camp.” 

Abraham still had his back to Edmund, rummaging deep within the bag of apples. “Major, you and I both know that’s not going to happen.” 

“I’m not a major,” Edmund repeated the same line he’d said to his wife. “Not anymore.” 

Abraham nodded as if he’d expected that response. His back was still to Edmund, and a wild moment of intuition washed over him suddenly. He watched, as if not quite aware of himself, as he raised his pistol. 

“Turn around,” he ordered. Abraham froze, and in the encompassing silence that followed, Edmund cocked his pistol. “I said turn around.” 

Abraham slowly turned on one foot to face him, his hands only marginally raised. From his vantage point, Edmund could see a glimpse of the stiletto blade that Abraham kept strapped to his wrist, halfway out of its sheath. 

“Going to kill me in front of your son?” Edmund growled, his voice almost quiet enough to slip by Thomas, but the word “son” caught his attention. The little blond boy turned to him with a hopeful smile that broke his heart. He forced himself to look away from the son to the father. 

“I suppose that’s what you planned to do, then?” Abraham spat, stepping sideways to stand in front of Thomas. “You tried once, maybe you’ll finally do it this time.” 

“Do not –” Edmund’s voice was a roar that made even Abraham flinch. “You do not get to manipulate me this time.” Abraham clamped his jaw shut tightly, so hard Edmund could hear his teeth grinding together. “You’re taking me to your Continental contact. Now.” 

“I am not –”

The sound of the gunshot immediately brought forth the hoarse cries of Thomas, and Abraham’s horrified face went so white it was almost grey. Edmund lowered the still smoking pistol to the ground and pulled Richard’s from his belt, loaded and ready. He leveled it at Abraham. 

“You almost shot me!” his shout was almost a shriek, his eyes shifting over his shoulder to look at the smoking hole in the side of the cabin. “You – you –”

“Next time, I won’t miss,” he hissed. “Now, calm your son, and get moving.”


	2. Across The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund struggles to get across the Sound.

The cold was heavy and oppressive on Edmund’s coat as he trudged through the underbrush, the barrel of Richard’s pistol pressed between Abraham’s shoulder blades. He could hear Abraham breathing heavily, though from exertion or from the pressure of the gun, Edmund could not be sure. It didn’t truly matter anyway, so long as Abraham took him where he needed to go. 

“No one’s going to be there,” Abraham finally said, disrupting the silence with his sullen voice. “We have to send him a signal first.” 

“No you don’t,” Edmund argued, shoving Abraham forward slightly. “You have moved beyond signals by now, or someone would have noticed. Don’t try lying to me, Mr. Woodhull. I’ve had quite enough deception for a lifetime.” 

“Then I guess you got into the wrong line of work,” Abraham’s retort was quiet, but it was enough to spur Edmund to shove him forward, tumbling down a small hill and into a pile of dead leaves. 

“I said enough,” he growled. “Once you take me to your drop site and I meet your Continental contact, you can go back to your domestic deception and counting redcoat uniforms from laundry lines. I don’t care.” 

Abraham scrambled to his feet, his skinny legs moving fast enough to remind Edmund forcibly of the spiders that his mother demanded he kill for her back in Scotland. He fixed the grey beanie over his head and straightened his shoulders. 

“What exactly is it that you’re trying to accomplish here?” he asked, his wiry stature accomplishing very little in the way of intimidation. “Determined now that your wife is gone –”

“Do not –” Edmund snapped. “Do not speak of her.” 

“Now that your wife is gone, to finally do your job?” Abraham plowed on belligerently, taking a step toward Edmund and the pistol. Edmund glared at him, trying to rein in his temper, grasping at his panic and fear with the tips of his fingers as much as he could before he completely abandoned the hope of keeping himself together and dropped the barrel of the pistol and grasped the handle of the gun tightly and swung at Abraham. 

His fist, heavier with the weighty pistol in his hand, knocked Abraham back hard enough to send him sprawling back to the ground, legs flailing like that very same dead spider. He coughed, spitting blood into the brown and rust colored leaves, and Edmund watched with satisfaction as he struggled to rise back to his feet. Blood was splattered, like a painting across his pale face. 

“I told you not to speak of her,” Edmund said through his teeth. “Now, continue.” 

Abraham trudged along in silence for a while, the sound of their boots crunching on leaves the only sound; Edmund rather liked it this way better. But the cold was starting to set in, and he felt the phantom pain in his mangled foot. He longed for this to be over. But even as he stumbled against the root of a small tree, the letter he had hidden against his leg scraped against his breeches and he moved with new vigor. 

They had almost reached the water now, the Sound tranquil and still. Abraham paused, as if taking in the sight that he saw every day since his childhood, and finally spoke again, his breath rising in a plume. 

“I told you no one would be here,” he sounded smug, though how he managed that with blood in his mouth, Edmund wasn’t sure. 

“I didn’t ask you what you told me, Mr. Woodhull,” he snapped. “If there is no one here, then we will wait.” 

“Wait –?”

“Yes, wait,” Edmund insisted condescendingly, as if Abraham were too stupid to comprehend even the simplest word. “You better hope your contact decides to show up soon.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” Abraham asked. 

The click of the gun cocking near his ear was enough to send him flinching away, his hands rising over his head again. “Then I suppose I’ll have to content myself with fracturing the Culper Ring, then, won’t I?” 

“You’re crazy,” he muttered, so low that Edmund barely heard it. 

“It’s amazing that you still haven’t mastered the principle of not upsetting the person aiming a gun at you,” he said idly, leaning against the tree to better relieve the pain in his foot. “I suppose spies don’t necessarily have to be smart in a combat situation, so at least you have that advantage.” 

Abraham had nothing to say to that, lest he do exactly what Edmund was admonishing him for. Instead, he crouched to the ground and sat, turning his back to him. Whether he did that out of pure stupidity or just a lack of forethought, Edmund wasn’t sure. Either way, if the itching in his trigger finger didn’t cease, at least he wouldn’t have to look at his face. 

The thought of killing Abraham, no matter how satisfying it would be, made him slightly nauseated. Even when a man deserved it (and Abraham certainly did), killing just wasn’t in Edmund’s nature. He had killed before, true, but it had been out of necessity, not out of blood lust. He didn’t want to succumb to what he considered man’s baser instincts. 

But for the sake of Anna’s safety, he would, he thought suddenly with vehement force. It caught him off guard, how quickly he rationalized death as a necessary event for Anna’s sake. She had left him, alone and humiliated, and here he was, hoping against his better judgment that he could get to her in time, deep in the enemy’s camp, just to know she was safe. 

Even if she didn’t love him.

The sound of the water lapping harder against the shore roused Edmund from his thoughts; a boat was pulling up to the shore, a man housed inside. Abraham had long since abandoned the idea of a dialogue and slumped against the ground, wiping discreetly at the blood caked to his face. It brought Edmund a good amount of pride, watching him pick at the scabs. Now he knew how he felt. 

“Woody?” the Irish accent was heavy, but the voice quiet. Edmund perked up, just in time to grab Abraham’s shoulder and yank him back down. “Woody, is that you?” 

“Run!” Abraham managed to hiss before Edmund slammed the butt of the pistol against the fleshy part of his neck near his shoulder. 

But instead of listening to his compatriot, the man with the Irish voice stepped into a beam of moonlight, and illuminated himself. He was short, and stocky, rather like a badger, with a thick beard that looked matted. Edmund grimaced at him; there was a smear of dirt above his eyebrows, and it looked so at home there he wondered if it was permanent. 

“Woody, what the hell –?” As his eyes fell on Edmund, the man recoiled, reaching for his gun. Edmund raised his pistol warningly, and his hands tightened momentarily into fists before they rose, even with his shoulders. 

“Name,” Edmund demanded, realizing almost belatedly that he vaguely recognized this man from the Battle of Setauket. He could hazard a guess, but – 

“No way,” the bearded man spat. “You’ll take nothing from me.” He turned his gaze to Abraham, who was still scowling. “What the hell have you done?” 

“He threatened my son!” Abraham sneered. “I did what I had to do.”

“And as usual, it helps no one but yourself,” the bearded man replied. “Who is he?” 

Edmund felt almost compelled to hit Abraham again, to remind them both that having a conversation about him while he was within earshot was very rude, but refrained. 

“Edmund Hewlett,” Abraham said, sparing a glance up at him before focusing on the bearded man again. 

“Hewlett?” the bearded man surveyed him critically, as though looking for something specific. Edmund supposed he looked a little queer without his wig and uniform. “The major?” 

“Not a major anymore,” Hewlett said, for the third time. “Now, get back into the boat.” 

“Wait –” the bearded man turned back to Abraham. “The Edmund Hewlett that Annie almost married?” 

Edmund grimaced sharply, but struggled to hide it. His gaze met the bearded man’s for a moment, and he knew he had been caught. Abraham shrugged but didn’t say anything, avoiding the other man’s gaze. 

“She came to camp, Woody,” the bearded man said, lowering his voice as though he was hoping Edmund couldn’t hear him. “What the hell happened?” 

“Get back in the boat,” Edmund hissed, jabbing him in the shoulder with the barrel of the gun. The bearded man turned back to him finally, his eyes dark. 

“Caleb Brewster,” he finally introduced himself, “and you let Simcoe kill my uncle.” 

“No one lets Simcoe do anything,” Edmund replied sharply. “And I seem to recall giving you a chance to repay that debt. And yet, he’s still alive.” 

Abraham made a strangled choking noise behind him, and Edmund chuckled, low in his throat. “Thought I didn’t know that, did you, Mr. Woodhull? For a spy, you are a horrible liar.” 

“You believed me,” he pointed out. “For months.” 

“Now that I have your contact, don’t think I won’t hesitate,” Edmund said, deceptively calm while rage pounded through his chest. He turned the aim of the pistol to Abraham, relishing in the way he winced away from it, like he had done this a thousand times already. 

“Alright, alright,” Caleb interrupted. “What is it that you want?” 

Edmund turned his eyes back to him, but left the gun where it was. “I already told you. I want to go to your camp, and if you don’t want to take me, then I suppose I’ll have no choice but to shoot your Mr. Culper here.” 

Caleb’s eyes dropped to his friend, and they communicated as best they could without saying anything out loud. Edmund let the silence stretch as long as his patience allowed before he spoke up again. Abraham was waving his arms around, as he was wont to do when cornered, and as his patience stretched thinner, Edmund reached down and tapped his wrist with the side of the gun, the mechanic click loud and painful. Abraham yelped and brought his arms down. Caleb glared at him. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen –”

“You aren’t going to kill him,” Caleb interrupted confidently. “Or you would have done it already.” 

Edmund considered the thought for a moment before he shrugged. Caleb’s face settled into a sneer, his hand tightening on the hilt of a knife at his waist. “I’ve already taken one shot, Mr. Brewster,” he nudged the side of Abraham’s head with the barrel of the pistol. “I doubt I’ll miss this close.” 

“Then I’ll just kill you when it’s over,” Caleb stubbornly crossed his arms, determined to make a chess game out of a simple trade. Edmund could still see his fingers stretching closer to the knife hilt. 

“You could,” Edmund shrugged, ignoring the way that notion made his chest constrict. “But then your precious little spy ring will be useless. I think that’s a little more important to you than ferrying me across the Sound and into Washington’s camp.” 

“I can’t take you into camp,” Caleb answered, his voice so sharp it couldn’t even be called condescending. “I’d be court marshaled. Hung.” 

Hewlett nudged him in the shoulder with his gun. “Funnily enough, I don’t care about what happens to you –”

Caleb took a hesitant step back toward the little skiff he’d brought across the Sound. “I’m well aware –”

“I care about what happens to Anna.” 

Caleb paused, his eyes on the gun. Abraham, behind them both, rose to his feet. 

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Caleb asked, his voice a deep timbre of barely contained panic. “We aren’t going to risk our lives to help you plead your case?” 

“This has nothing –”

“Then explain –”

“You have no right to be speaking, Mr. Woodhull,” Edmund snapped, turning only halfway to address him. 

“Are you serious –”

“Get in the boat,” Edmund said calmly to Caleb, who glanced up at Abraham. “Don’t look at him; he stays here.” After another moment – “Get into the boat.” 

Reluctantly, Caleb moved toward the skiff. Edmund followed him, lowering the pistol long enough to steady himself in the boat. 

“Caleb!” Abraham shouted, exasperated, as Caleb shoved the skiff into the water. Caleb seated himself comfortably in front of Edmund, his hands tight around the oars, before he addressed Abraham. 

“I’ll be back in a week, Woody,” he called, his eyes still on Edmund. 

“You can’t do this!” 

Caleb didn’t answer, but tightened his hold on the oars, propelling them deeper into the milky darkness of the Sound. 

The silence, the knowledge that he was finally leaving Setauket behind, and the feeling of making progress, no matter how miniscule, relaxed Edmund’s shoulders. 

That is, until Caleb released the oars with a loud thunk and shoved a thick knife close to Edmund’s neck. They stayed that way for a moment, the boat rocking gently, the blade sliding closer to the soft skin of Edmund’s throat with every sway. 

“Now that we’re alone,” he hissed, pressing the blade deeper into Edmund’s skin. The sharp prick of the blade threatening to breach his skin momentarily halted his breathing, and Edmund had to struggle to hear Caleb’s next words. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you and dump your body into the Sound?” 

“Because –” Edmund wheezed against the blade. “Someone will kill Anna, and I’m the only one that can find them.” 

The blade lowered, for only a moment, before Caleb realized what he was doing and pressed it, with renewed vigor, into Edmund’s neck. 

“Killed?” he repeated. 

“Kidnapped,” Edmund corrected, “but they’ll take her to Simcoe, so perhaps kill is the right word.” 

Caleb lowered the knife enough to give Edmund the opportunity to pull his collar away from his throat, letting his fingertips brush against the soft skin of his throat, checking for cuts. There was a tiny scratch there, not enough to bleed, but enough to sting. 

“How do you know?” Caleb asked softly, the Irish accent more pronounced when he spoke quietly. 

“It doesn’t matter how I know,” Edmund replied, thinking of the letter against his calf. “I would not be risking my life unless I absolutely had to. This is an absolute.” 

Caleb stared at him for a few moments, his brown eyes searching for an ulterior motive. Edmund met his gaze unflinchingly, waiting for him to make his assessment. He felt rather like a new dog trying to join a wolf pack, exposing his tender throat for the alpha wolf. 

The fact that Caleb wasn’t even close to the alpha wolf in this situation didn’t matter. Edmund would do the same thing to every member of the Continental army if he had to. 

Caleb lowered the knife, but kept it close to his right hand, and took up the oars again. 

“I can’t promise that you will even make it into camp,” Caleb said, dropping his gaze to the water. “I can’t promise that Washington will see you. Or Anna.” 

Her name washed over him like the ice cold spray of the Sound. “I don’t need her to see me,” Edmund said quietly. “I just need to keep her safe.


End file.
